Well, at any rate,” said I, “I did, the very last time we stopped, and I think it must have been an old Tom; the remembrance of it makes me so uncomfortable I must go to sleep at once.” Thus speaking, I wrapped myself well in my rug, as I naturally did not believe a word of the narrative with which my friend Charley had favoured me.
CHAPTER II.
I might have been asleep half an hour and more when I suddenly woke up, feeling thoroughly chilled and uneasy, and, looking up, saw Charley who was sitting opposite me, with such a look of terror and amazement on his pale face that I immediately put down my uneasy slumbers to his account.
“Good heavens! Charley,” said I, “how the dickens do you expect a fellow to sleep if you sit pulling such long faces opposite him. No wonder I couldn’t keep quiet. What is the matter now? Still thinking of your mysterious fiddlesticks?”
“Hush!” said Charley, “there she is!”
I jumped round—sure enough next the other window on my side sat a lady, wrapped, as Charley had described, in a white bournous; the curl of which he had spoken escaping from under the thick veil which concealed her face from us. I’m not such a fool as I look in general, but I must say I was a little staggered for a moment: my next impulse was to enter into conversation with her.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” said I, raising my hat, “I am afraid you must have thought 1 used strong language just now, but I felt myself aggrieved by my friend, as I am a very light sleeper, and 1 considered he had disturbed me by the very disagreeable face he was making.”
“I should not have thought you so light a sleeper, either, sir,” replied a sweet low voice, as the lady bowed in return, “for you did not seem to heed the bustle of the Junction on my getting in.” So saying she raised her veil, and the identical soft brown eyes Charley had spoken of gazed sadly at me from her astonishingly white brow.
“Take some sherry, Charley,” said I, handing him the flask, for I saw his whole frame quivering. “And may I offer you some, madam?”
“None, thank you,” she replied.
Charley’s hand shook so he dropped the stopper, and it rolled towards her. She picked it up, and restored it to me. Her glove was off.
“Heavens, madam! is it broken? It has cut your hand!” I exclaimed, “it is bleeding.”
“I have not hurt it, it is stained,” was the quiet answer.
I was getting very uncomfortable; how was this? I know one often has a feeling when a thing takes place. I have done this before. I know exactly what is going to happen next: but it was something more than that now. Was I dreaming? surely not, for I heard the train go whizzing on through the evening air, the occasional whistle, the flash of a light as we passed a station, stopping sometimes, and hearing feet crushing the wet gravel; while all the time Charley sat opposite, pale and strange looking, and I could see his lip tremble when the light shone on him. Beside me sat our silent companion, still and motionless, her face resting as Charley had described it, on the stained hand. I tried to shake off the feelings of dread that were creeping over me, and turning to her began a conversation with her. I found that Charley had indeed not exaggerated her powers of mind, and we were still talking (she and I), when I became aware of a singular movement of the carriage in which we were, which increased till we were swung violently backwards and forwards. Then there was a tremendous crash, the carriage upset, and all seemed going to pieces. An immense spar struck the lady violently on the head: I heard a crunching of delicate bones, saw Charley sinking under another: I myself was stunned by the concussion. When I recovered, there seemed nothing round me but a mass of broken timbers; but after a time I distinguished Charley, lying bleeding and insensible under the débris. The greater mass, however, seemed on the lady’s side. I groped my way to her, and shuddering to think what I should find there, with no expectation of there being any answer to my question, remembering what I had heard and seen against that small head, I asked how much she was hurt?
“Not at all, I thank you,” replied the sweet low voice I never thought to hear again. “How is your friend?”
“He is insensible; I cannot, I fear, extricate him. Can I assist you?”
“Do not mind me,” she answered; “go at once for assistance for your friend.”
“But I cannot leave you so.” I was trying to remove the spars that lay over her; how she could breathe under such a weight astonished me, for I could not move one, and they lay right on her chest.
“Only assist me to extricate my hand, and then hasten away,” she answered; “you cannot help me otherwise.”
With the greatest exertion I managed to effect an opening, through which she passed her hand. I started, for the blood seemed fresh on it. The next moment I remembered the singular stain. I took hold of it to pull it through; it was deadly, heavy, cold, and sent a shiver to my very soul.
“Now go,” she said, “you can do no more for me, and your friend’s life may be at stake. Oh go!”
I had indeed been neglecting poor Charley. I now freed his head and chest as much as I could, and then crept out to see if I could get help. It was a frightful scene as I made my way out: there were a few glaring torches, brought from the next station, which we were near, and people running madly up and down; whilst among the broken timbers you saw mangled, bleeding bodies, helplessly, hopelessly entangled. Another train running into ours seemed to have caused the accident by throwing us down an embankment. I was fortunate enough to fall in with the guard of our train (who happened to be an old servant of our family, and knew me well), directing some fellows with spades to dig for the passengers, and prevailed upon him to begin with our carriage.
I set them to work on poor Charley, who was I still insensible, and climbed over to the other side